Write What You Know?

It's a tired old refrain of wisdom from the pros.

I subscribe to several literary agents' blog feeds and today's feed from one particular agency was a disheartening sucker punch to science fiction and fantasy authors. Though I'm sure it was not meant as such.

"Write what you know" the agent proselytized. The agent posed questions similar to these: How can a suburban housewife write about firing an M16? How can a garbage man write a novel about being a cop? The advice was more or less: "Don't even go there." But the agent added a disclaimer "unless you do thorough research."

Well, duh.

But what about fantasy? What about worlds which live within Imagination? After all, who really "knows" magic, and dragons, and unicorns, and time travel? Can a suburban housewife write about princesses, and talking cats, and castles? Can a garbage man convincingly portray dragons and were-creature-infested swamps?

You bet.

That's why FANTASY, good fantasy, anyway, is relationally driven. (My opinion.) Because although it would be AWESOME if a giant, wingless lion took me for a flight on his back in order to save the world as we know it from Evil, it's really about trusting the lion--about relating to the lion, snuggling the lion without fear. But with fear.

Yes, relationships are tricky. This I know.

I don't believe that C.S. Lewis ever took a flight on the back of a lion so he could write about it, but I've read much of his nonfiction and it is clear that, through the beauty of relationship, Jack flew with The Lion.

Write what you know.

Yes. Do that.

But keep in mind that "what you know" isn't always translated into tangible experience. It's often something less definitive--like the moon's reflection on the ocean.

Do your research, yes. As much as you are able. Then put away your stamped passport (aka: library card), dive into the ocean and chase the moon. (Or moons, depending on your genre!)

Whatever you do, in whichever genre most taps your passion, don't come up for air until you've reached that mystical island where Fiction Mirrors Truth.

The Purpose of Procrastination, or Welcome to My World

If procrastination were an art form, I’d be its most sought-after Diva.

The internet snares me sometimes; okay, often. What begins as “research” or “networking” turns into mindless surfing to avoid the glaring blank page I should be focused upon. Today, however, the page hasn’t been blank. It hasn’t glared, it’s grinned. Because it's been filling up with words.

Yesterday’s mindless surfing--as I waited to get my groove on--resulted in a visit to cafepress.com where I viewed lots of funny stuff—t-shirts, posters, etc., which made me laugh and then, unexpectedly, made me close down my Google Chrome and GET BACK TO WORK! You see, I saw this inspirational mug. I know, silly. But go with me on my wave of procrastination. It said, “The first draft doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be written.”

Ouch.

There are two conferences I would love to attend—would love to have fresh, finished, polished manuscripts to present to editors—but my characters have been strangely silent the last few weeks. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they’ve been screaming and I’ve just tuned them out. One manuscript is over half-way complete, the other, about one-fourth. I know how they end, both of them. Point A and Point D are clear in my mind. It’s that stubborn Act II—those Points C&D which have my knickers in a twist. So I keep going back and polishing what I’ve already written rather than adding to it. My word count goes up and down, but stays within a range which accounts for precisely zilch… NO FORWARD MOTION!!!

Until yesterday, when I happened upon that quote.

“The first draft doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be written.”

Preach it.

And that forward writing motion has continued into today. Thanks to not wanting to sit in a smelly shop and wait while my tire gets fixed, I’ve written a book review, finished the new scene I labored over yesterday, and almost have another new scene completely ripped. I feel good. Yet I’m still procrastinating on that blooming tire.

Good news, however. I have the next two days off work. I have a 10,000 word goal this week, and I’m sitting pretty at over 3,000 gloriously unedited words of first draft material so far. Also, I have obtained the newest Kristen Heitzmann novel, INDIVISIBLE, from my friends at Amazon.com, which I can take with me to the smelly tire shop.

When all else fails, make sure you’ve got a book handy.

Perhaps this is the story of my life—always putting off something to focus on… something else. Sometimes my procrastination has a purpose—a respite from stress, a step back for reflection, a bandage for the bleeding when what I’ve written has sucked me dry.

Today, however, I’m writing and putting off what I should be doing. You see, my minivan has a flat tire. Seriously flat. As in, I-almost-got-stranded-at-Wal-mart-yesterday flat. I need to get it fixed because there are piano lessons tonight and I’m the only available chauffeur. I’m procrastinating on getting my tire fixed. I know. Stupid. But look at all I've accomplished through the art of diversionary tactics!

But, alas, I have to get it fixed in time to pick up my kids. In exactly two hours.

What am I still doing here?

Oh. That's right. Procrastinating.

Never Underestimate the Power of a Good Dye Job

My previous post should explain my long absence from blogging. But I'm getting settled in a new "permanent" home now, my computer is enjoying a better firewall and the huge advance from dial-up to DSL. Woo-hoo!

I'm back, baby! But it took a bit more than an address change to get me here....

After a short stint as a coppery-blonde to play the role of "Margy" in our community theater's production of Rodgers and Hammerstein's State Fair I've finally got my real hair back. Well, what constitutes as my "real hair", anyway! I have my razor cut, my almost-funky striped low and highlights, and my flat iron and hair goo are once again receiving daily attention.

Who knew that something as wacky as a hair style could affect my mojo so much? When I let my razored layers grow out and went copper-penny blonde for "Margy" the bleach must have somehow taken the color out of my soul as well as my hair. Some random chemical reaction must have happened to make me feel insecure and entirely frumptastic. ("tastic", of course, being my personal suffix of choice at the moment; and, since I am a writer I am at liberty to make up words at will. I'm sure I'll move on soon to some other thing, but since I've been over-using the word "ginormous" I had to come up with something fresh. This too shall pass.)

My lifeless reflection hearkened my hair back to the days of being a new mom, when showers were a hit or miss part of the day and make-up?--faggeddaboutit! So even though I was getting up in the morning, going through the whole shower/makeup/hairstyle routine, dressing professionally, and heading off to the bank to fulfill my role as a Financial Services Representative, I still felt, well... frumpy. My creative juices fizzled, my writing slugged. It was depressing. I don't like to think of myself as vain, but dang. Something had to be done! Two days after our final performance of State Fair, I called my stylist (aka: The Magician) so sweet, innocent little "Margy" could DIE! and the rrrrrrrrr could get dyed back into S.R. Van Ness.

Thanks to Lana, my stylist/colorist/magician, I'm back, baby. And I'm digging in hard. I'm posting this puppy and then I'm opening up those first 130 pages of my supernatural-thriller-in-progress and seeing if I can make it to 140 pgs before the kiddos get home from school.

It's amazing what a girl can do when she's got the right hair.

Obsessive Compulsive Mood Music Disorder

My kids are so sick of George and Ira Gershwin. And they don't even know it.

With every bit of fiction I write some sort of music speaks to me and fuels my creative process. For The Ryn it was a combo of Etta James, Celtic new age, Chris Tomlin, and movie soundtracks. For Suspended in Disbelief it was Barlow Girl, specifically the acoustic version of "On My Own", and SuperChick. Now as I write a flashback-heavy saga coming-of-age heartbreak I'm listening to the 1993 Sheena Easton album of classics (several by one or both of the Gershwin boys) entitled No Strings.

The album chronicles the birth, life, and, ultimately, the death of a romantic relationship. Particularly, the poignant lyric and haunting arrangement of the French ballad, If You Go Away (Ne Me Quitte Pas) written by Jacques Brel and Rod McKuen rips at my heartstrings. I play the song over and over as I write certain scenes. The song has taken on the life of a Muse; its practically writing its own scenes, just within my more contemporary-ish setting and with my characters. Former pop-princess Easton croons like a 1930s chanteuse, emoting the grief, pleading, and acceptance of the lyric so perfectly. I only wish I spoke French to be able to translate the remaining portion of the lyric.

My Amazon cart also includes a compilation album or two I plan to draw from--songs from the 80s which were such a huge part of my own heartbreaks. And Daughtry--oh, Daughtry. Loss, fear, and hope wrapped up in a song.

I know a lot of other authors depend upon music to fuel their writing. Stephenie Meyer loves the band Muse, James Scott Bell writes to instrumental movie soundtracks. I don't know if other authors are as obsessive about particular songs as I am... but I also don't know if other people are generally as obsessive about ANYTHING as I, in my warped state of mind, am.

Did I mention that Sheena is crooning "How Deep is The Ocean" through my laptop speakers right now????? It is a sickness, I know.

But the sun is shining, my girls just got home from school... 45 minutes ago... so I'm going to go outside and enjoy this new turn in Iowa's bipolar weather.

But I'll probably take my MP3 player out with me. You never can tell what new scenes the Muse will sing to mind.